


Name, Please?

by wistfulpisces



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Barista John Watson, Coffee Shops, Don't copy to another site, Love at First Sight, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Language, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulpisces/pseuds/wistfulpisces
Summary: Sherlock always gives a fake name when ordering a drink at a café. John is the new barista who, unluckily for him, never forgets a pretty face or its accompanying name. When John asks him on a date, he realises he now has to live with his new identity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to baristas everywhere. I love you. You’re doing the angels’ work. I know it’s just better for both of us if I don’t tell you my real name.
> 
> Disclaimer that I'm not English, I'm Australian, so the references to coffee orders in this may not be culturally accurate. I tried, and I hope you enjoy it anyway. Please let me know what you think! x

It starts out as a matter of necessity, really.

Sherlock loves his name. Having exerted some autonomy in claiming _Sherlock_ as his given name, he feels that he’s lived up to it – perhaps grown into it somehow. He loves how it rolls off his tongue, flowing easily into the often-adjacent Holmes. He revels in the way it makes professors raise an eyebrow, strangers cock their heads to one side in curiosity or confusion, classmates momentarily lift their chins with a sceptical eye.

For all that he enjoys silence and solitude, he takes pleasure in being able to make an impression with something so simple as a name.

It does, however, present a problem in the more mundane aspects of his everyday life. One such aspect is the practice of ordering beverages.

He often finds that at 6 a.m., baristas are only half awake themselves. The possibility of this rises almost exponentially in direct correlation to the increased proximity of the coffee shop to the university, and the decreasing age of the barista. The younger they are and the closer to the university, the more likely Sherlock will be forced to stand and wait far longer than necessary while a clueless barista calls out a name that holds no resemblance to his own.

Thus, he frequently departs annoyed and stroppy, often with an inadequate amount of spare time to conduct an experiment in its entirety before his first class.

It wouldn’t be such a bother, really, if baristas were capable of using their brains – or, more accurately, their ears. How difficult is _Sherlock_ to understand? The disyllabic is spelt exactly as it is said but still, he receives cups with untidy scrawls reading all things from Cheryl to Shylock. (The latter wounds him so spectacularly that he resolves never to step foot into that particular shop again.)

Irene, the smug dollop, has never had this problem. She seems to think that something about her posture, her tone of voice, her very air, demands attention enough for any barista to complete the task without a problem. Never mind, Sherlock thinks, how utterly common a name _Irene_ may be.

Somehow, that particular idea never flusters the woman. She always makes some retort about how it isn’t the raw material – the data – that matters, but the way one uses it. That always draws a snort out of Sherlock.

On one occasion, a barista, having futilely asked him to repeat his name not once but twice more, simply writes _cheekbones_ onto a takeaway cup. The man seems to think it amusing, briefly showing the script to him with an unconcerned shrug and a possibly-flirtatious grin. Misguided. Idiotic.

The problem is all far more trouble than it’s worth. After all, what’s in a name, really? Sherlock relents, wondering if he’s being foolish: does it matter as much to his logical mind – with respect to his desire for efficiency in all social interactions – as it does to his prideful heart?

After too many mornings of misunderstandings, misspellings, mispronunciations, and an overall increase in Sherlock’s misanthropic tendencies, he finally resigns himself to giving a false name.

First he is William, out of convenience. Then Isaac is misspelt as Isack (though how _exactly_ one could be so dim is frankly beyond him). He cycles through whichever names take his fancy, whether that of a scientist whose paper he’d read the night prior, one he’d heard on his journey to the coffee shop, or – as on one particularly flustered occasion – the one printed on the barista’s own name tag. They spell it correctly, even if he’s directed a decidedly quizzical gaze in response.

It isn’t every day that a dashing young man declares his name is Felicity.

Sometimes Sherlock sticks to one name for several weeks until he tires of it, but more often than not, they’re only fleeting dalliances. He can never bring himself to become overly attached to any of them: whether Bradley, Peter, Robert, Colin, or any of the other easily arranged, common signifiers of people, he thinks that none of them quite suit him enough for comfort.

Due to the fact that an early morning shift this near to campus frequently leaves baristas harried and sleep-deprived, and they are more often than not students themselves, the person behind the cash register varies almost as often as Sherlock’s choices. This is a good thing, as it means that none of the names he gives are ever remembered. Every time he enters the coffee shop, he’s once again a blank canvas, unfailingly greeted with, “Hi, what can I get you?” and then, “Name, please?”

None of these names make an impression in the same way as Sherlock. In the haze of the ritualistic morning caffeine rush, they are easy to spell but ordinary, forgettable.

That is, until a new barista is hired, who’s more than happy to work frequent mornings and who never forgets a pretty face or its accompanying name.

* * *

The queue is longer than usual. The man before Sherlock is arguing in an obnoxiously loud, disdainful tone about how it’s _normally_ no problem for _the usual baristas_ to make a soy latte with an extra shot. Whichever poor soul is behind the counter sounds as if they’re expending every ounce of their patience; their voice strains with hints of a kind of tired desperation while they attempt to confirm that what the customer actually wants is a long macchiato with soy. It’s a pointless endeavour, and Sherlock wonders why they’re bothering at all. 

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been in that morning. Sherlock vaguely recalled her informing him that this would be the case the morning prior, although a sticky note on his infectious diseases textbook had nonetheless reinforced the fact. She’s visiting someone – a relative, or a friend… whom doesn’t matter all that much, does it?

_Do remember to eat, dear,_ the note ended, with two dashed x’s. He hadn’t had the time, of course. Without Mrs. Hudson’s deft hands pressing a lightly buttered slice of toast into his grasp of a morning, eighteenth century chemistry papers are always given his full attention, right up until the last possible moment. He’d left just in time to step into the right pair of shoes and remember to lock the front door.

So now he waits in the café: later than he’d like to be, in a much longer line than he’s accustomed to, with a new barista. Sherlock sighs internally at the thought, feeling a physical craving for caffeine already. He steps forward.

“Morning, what can I get for you?”

_Oddly chipper. Especially after that ill-tempered nightmare._

“Doppio, three sugars. Take away.”

“Double shot? Sure thing. Name, please?”

_Shit._

He hadn’t thought this far. He glances up at the barista and his gaze catches on ocean-blue eyes before it has a chance to reach the name tag.

Sherlock blinks, but can’t seem to recall how to speak. He hadn’t listened to any of his surroundings on the way over, and most likely wouldn’t remember anything of them in this moment even if he had.

The barista continues to stare at him, eyebrows drawing together a little while he holds a marker and cup in his hands. A tiny wrinkle appears between the man’s brows. Some strands of hair fall over the stranger’s forehead, and Sherlock tells himself that he’s obviously imagining their twinkling in the morning light – golden as dawn rays over the bubbling froth of the seashore.

“Uh,” the barista clears his throat, halfway between impatience and growing concern that this guy can’t seem to remember his own name. Is he having a stroke? “Gonna need a name with that, pal.”

Sherlock begins to feel a flicker of panic sparking heavy in his stomach, then hurriedly remembers mercuric oxide.

“Joseph.” He swallows, finally looking away and down to his wallet. It’s trembling; so are his hands. He flexes them into fists for just a moment, before extracting the exact amount with swift precision. A practiced-and-perfected movement, unlike the rest of this morning, for some reason.

“Just a moment.” The barista, _John_ – Sherlock narrows his eyes momentarily at the unfamiliar face and plain name – shares a glance with the woman on the other register. ( _Molly, with the ever-present navy hair clip and candied customer service voice. Studying medical science, without planning to be a traditional doctor._ ) Some slight amusement hides in his expression.

Sherlock moves to the side and waits, resisting the primal urge to check his silent and motionless mobile phone.

“Joseph?”

Their fingers brush as the cup is slid over the counter from one grasp to another.

“See you tomorrow.”

Sherlock looks up, careful not to drop his piping hot cup, wondering why it sounds like a question.

“Yeah.” He nods uselessly, ignoring the sudden hoarseness of his voice.

His right hand continues to shake all through the walk to his first lecture; the tremor persists even after he finishes the cup’s contents and disposes of it. At least it’s quite a good coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering... yes, that was a sneaky Merlin reference.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is troubled by this relative stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to technical issues, I had to delete and repost this chapter. I've now learnt not to use ao3's draft function. Carry on.

_See you tomorrow._

Sherlock grumbles about the stupid phrase from the moment he wakes the next morning, all through the breakfast forced upon him (Mrs. Hudson knows he’d neglected to eat yesterday morning: there’s no hiding anything from her), and up until he pushes the coffee shop’s door open.

John hadn’t worked a morning shift in the place before yesterday – or, not one that Sherlock had graced – and therefore had no real evidence to support the assumption of his return. Had something Sherlock said or did given him away? Did John somehow manage to notice, amongst serving an endless line of customers, that Sherlock walked through the door with the ease of someone who had done the same thing a hundred times before? That he didn’t glance up to survey the drinks menu? Did Sherlock merely seem like a creature of strict habit?

Maybe it’s something the barista says to everyone, a necessary pleasantry he bestows on every paying customer: _thanks for calling, we hope you come in tomorrow, too._ It had felt like more than that, though. Surely that expression in his whirlpool eyes isn’t freely given to every stranger John looks at. Is it possible for one person to have that much feeling inside of them, that much of a kind, genial nature readily shareable, seeping out to anoint anyone who those eyes make contact with?

Sherlock inhales. _What the hell?_ He’s overthinking this, and dear god, he might yet go mad with it. Eyes are made of fluid and collagen fibres, cells and optic nerves, ligaments and muscles. Not _feelings._

“Hi Joseph, what can I get for you?”

Sherlock stalls, his mouth closing before it can fully open.

Hoping this won’t be a daily occurrence, John wonders if it’s simply the case that this tantalisingly gorgeous man is easily frightened by social interaction. Maybe the first name was too much. He looks down and readjusts the cup in his grip to give the man a moment to collect himself.

Harry used to say he could be a little intense at the most inconvenient of times.

“Yes.” When it finally sounds, Sherlock’s voice is strong, unwavering. Only a tad concerned about the gravity of the horrendous mistake he had made the previous morning. “Doppio, thanks. Take away.”

_What kind of barista has this good of a memory? There was a line of customers yesterday._

“No problem. Any sugar?” John glances up with a hint of a grin forming. Not the fake, just-smile-through-the-pain-Watson expression he uses to remind himself that he needs this job, but a sincere one.

“One,” Sherlock somehow gets out. Maybe the daily sugar hit isn’t doing his brain function any favours. At least today he has the correct money ready before it’s requested.

“Just a minute.”

Resolving to come in earlier tomorrow, and without making a complete, childish fool of himself, Sherlock only permits himself to steal a brief glimpse of John’s eyes before he departs. Somehow, this man feels dangerous.

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes.” It feels like a promise.

John’s eyes seem a deeper, more intriguing shade of blue than he remembers.

* * *

As it happens, Sherlock doesn’t make it into the café the next morning at all.

He wakes, as he does too often for it to be labelled infrequent, with an aching neck and textbook crease marks on his cheek, to the sound of his ungodly shrill third alarm. Stumbling to the sound, he switches off the alarm clock and stands clutching his head for a few moments, fingertips blocking all light from entering his vision. Then he goes in search of his phone.

It’s retrieved at long last, having fallen from his bedside table and onto the floor. The power socket his phone charger was plugged into hadn’t been switched on; that explains why his usual alarms had failed to rouse him.

Sherlock rubs his eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Then he grabs some clean clothes and strides to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

* * *

When he told himself that he’d have to make it through the day without his usual double shot of caffeine, Sherlock felt no qualms about it. He didn’t react with the same nervous blinking or tapping of his fingertips against his thighs that he does when he realises he’s run out of cigarettes on a day he’s (unavoidably) due to meet with his brother. Coffee is a luxury he’s become accustomed to in his daily life, and a pleasurable part of his weekday morning, but it isn’t essential to him. He’s not addicted.

Yet, Sherlock still finds himself leaving his last class — vector calculus, dull — ten minutes early in order to rush to the coffee shop. He has absolutely no knowledge of its closing time, only the crucial understanding that it opens at 7am and remains so for at least two hours (he’d skipped a useless morning lecture once or twice, and still managed to stop in on his way to campus).

When he arrives, it’s extremely quiet, with only a handful of customers tucked away in corner booths and hunched over at hushed tables. Many wear oversized headphones, tap away at open laptops and are generally shrouded in overt messages to leave them alone. A lone female barista is sweeping behind the counter in light, controlled movements. Her long mop of hair is tied back, although the edges of a side-leaning fringe escape her navy hair clip and obscure much of her features.

At the sight of her, and her singular presence behind the counter, Sherlock’s day-long craving for caffeine dissipates all but instantly. He decides against examining the mysterious phenomenon.

He approaches the counter slowly, feeling obliged to buy something now that he’s here.

Molly looks up. “Oh, hi – Joseph, right? I’ll just be a moment.”

Sherlock clears his throat. _How does she know that name? What has he_ done _?_ “I’m still making up my mind.”

She directs a gentle smile at him before sweeping her pile neatly aside and leaning the broom against the doorframe behind her.

“I’m not sure if you’re more of a sweet or a savoury guy, but the croissants are a crowd favourite.” Then she leans in, like a child sharing a well-guarded secret, and mutters in an undertone: “I’d advise against the mint chocolate cupcakes, though. People say they have an odd aftertaste and I’m inclined to agree.”

Sherlock smiles as she stands upright. Feeling compelled to answer, he replies, “I don’t really think I’m either.” He pauses. “Not really a food person.”

Molly grins and shrugs half-heartedly. “A nice Earl Grey’s always a safe bet here.”

Normally Sherlock wouldn’t be amused by a woman’s polite attempts at conversing with him, but Molly’s unassuming warmth speaks of a kindness he’s not accustomed to outside of interactions with Mrs. Hudson. Her attitude is far from Irene’s teasing and salacious banter, or his classmate’s permanent disdain.

Glancing once more at the rows of tarts, pastries and assorted confectionery behind the glass, Sherlock finally says, “I’ll have a chocolate chip croissant, thanks.”

After one too many awful cups of tea, Sherlock had long ago resolved never to order the beverage, even at specialty cafés. The only hands other than his own that he’ll accept it from are Mrs. Hudson’s and his mother’s.

The barista nods in response, bagging one before taking the appropriate sum. “Maybe you’re secretly a sweet _and_ savoury kind.” Content with chuckling at her own joke, Molly doesn’t seem to mind that her customer only shrugs.

Sherlock grabs his food and turns to leave, though his progress is halted by Molly’s voice. “By the way, Joseph –” He turns to catch an amused glint in her eye. “– we’re usually pretty quiet after the lunch rush, from around 3 ’til close. And the only afternoons I work are Monday and Friday. Just in case you – uh – wanted a chat.” She clears her throat in a pointed manner, wishing him a good afternoon with a little smile.

Sherlock nods, frowning as he pushes the door open.

It hadn’t felt like Molly was trying to ask him out. He’s pretty sure he has experience enough, from the outrageously blatant to the most ambiguous, in being able to discern when _that_ is happening.

Still, he isn’t exactly sure why he’d need that information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's eating habits are inspired by my own: I can never trust anyone with my tea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is so intrigued by John that he goes to the café to "start his biology essay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute! I'm basically unable to write during the uni semester, but now that's over for a bit I'm free to work on this fic again. I do love it. Thank you if you've stuck around and you're still reading. x

Despite having no obligation to leave his flat the next day – it being Saturday – and having actually planned to start a rather pressing biology essay, Sherlock finds himself pushing open the door to the cosy café in the early afternoon. John looks up and greets him with the most gorgeous smile he thinks he’s ever seen – it’s positively radiant, all easy charm and a carefree nature. He bets John doesn’t have to work at all to look that happy to see someone.

He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but Sherlock knows: he’s already gone. This person is practically a stranger and they’ve yet to exchange a proper conversation, but Sherlock knows this to be true with the same frank conviction that he knows he can recall the atomic mass of each element in the periodic table to three decimal places. (Four, on good days.)

How ridiculous that is.

At the same time, it’s all a little brilliant, too.

Standing a short distance away from the counter, with the air of someone perusing the drinks menu fixed high on the wall, Sherlock takes a chance to watch John. He finds himself entranced by the barista’s graceful hands.

His fingers appear a little stubby at first glance, although his knuckles protrude just slightly when he fists them around the handle of the milk pitcher, giving the brief impression of length. Hair falls over his forehead when he bends to grind coffee into the portafilter, but Sherlock still notices the bright, intense focus in his eyes. John is careful and sure in his every movement. Sherlock feels like he shouldn’t be so fascinated by the process – after all, he’s not performing a ballet number, he’s just making a cappuccino. But the fluidity with which John moves and the care that he exerts in such a task is startling.

Sherlock looks at John and he sees the memory of a medical student, the precision and focus of a surgeon, the sincerity of a nurse and the quickness of a paramedic. He feels the impulse to demand John tell him what field he’s studying, to have his deductions validated and praised by this man.

A customer moves to collect their drink, and Sherlock firmly ignores the flares of jealousy he feels toward every millisecond they experience John smiling at them and every decibel of their name on his breath.

The things Sherlock knows about John include that he’s a university student ( _obvious_ ), not an only child ( _demeanour and interactions with others_ ), not from a wealthy background ( _works often and clothes under apron are practical and durable rather than predominantly fashionable_ ), at one point in his youth had a pet cat in his family ( _faded scars clearly from pet scratches on outer forearm_ ), does not regularly sleep for more than approximately six hours a night ( _colour and slight prominence of under eye bags_ ) and that he’s most likely studying medical science. He does not know enough to warrant jealousy of other people’s interactions with him. Sherlock clenches his eyes shut for a moment, internally reprimanding himself.

When he reopens them, he approaches the counter with a small intake of breath. John had appeared quite beautiful from where he was standing a moment ago, but the effect is magnified from closer up.

John smiles. Sherlock tries not to stare at the brilliance of it and reminds himself that he does indeed know how to speak.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

“Doppio with two sugars, thanks.”

“To go?”

Sherlock swears that he’s imagining that there is hope seeping through the question.

“No, I, uh – I’ll have in today.” He swallows down the nervous tingle in his throat and tries to smile, but most likely succeeds only in giving a weak half-grimace.

Whatever his face is doing, John grins at him anyway. A genuinely pleased, gorgeous thing, bearing no hints of malice or amusement at Sherlock’s expense. He drinks it in with a flicker of his eyes, committing the rare image to memory.

“If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll bring it out to you,” John says warmly, accepting his money before reaching for the milk pitcher.

Existing in proximity to John feels essential, so Sherlock replies quietly: “I’m happy to wait.”

The barista’s eyes crinkle over the steam.

Sherlock’s eyes linger on John, mesmerised once more by the simple processes and how very not-simple they seem when performed by this particular barista. He’s almost disappointed when he realises his coffee is ready.

John looks up at him with a beckoning smile and their fingertips don’t quite brush as Sherlock takes the cup by its saucer. There is a foam leaf swirling in the milk on top.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says mostly to his drink.

Their eyes meet just as John replies, “Anytime.”

Finding a seat far enough from the counter that he’s not disturbed by any new customers, but not so far that he can’t observe John if he wishes, Sherlock pulls out his ecology textbook. He almost doesn’t want to disturb the perfect picture in his coffee. Taking a careful sip, he promises himself that he’ll look at John only after he’s completed a rough outline for his essay.

Exactly thirty-eight seconds later, he breaks his promise.

* * *

“Want a top-up?”

Sherlock jumps when a voice sounds next to him, accidentally scribbling over half the page in his workbook. He glances up to see ocean-blue eyes gazing into his own and momentarily forgets to exhale.

“Uh – yes. Sure. Please. That would be nice.” Sherlock’s nodding. Why can’t he stop nodding? He hands over his card.

“Doppio, two sugars?”

There’s a stupid smile fighting to break out on his face but he can’t really bring himself to care because John’s smiling, too. “Yes, thank you.”

For an instant, John’s tongue darts out onto his pink bottom lip. Sherlock can feel his heart beating in his ears for every millisecond they hold eye contact.

When the barista retreats to the counter, Sherlock looks around and realises there are only a few remaining customers in the café. The clear afternoon has become hazy dusk, and streetlights outside have come to life while he's studied idly.

He watches John return with a fresh coffee and it crosses his mind that he’d like to know what this man’s lips taste like. _One day,_ he mentally adds a second later. _Maybe._

“Here you go.” His card and coffee are both placed on the table. John’s eyes are twinkling and Sherlock thanks him again.

“So you’re studying biology?” John ventures, motioning to the textbook.

“Er, broadly,” Sherlock says, blinking a few too many times. “Biology alongside advanced mathematics and chemistry. My major is chemistry.”

_Stop talking,_ Sherlock’s brain supplies. It's a familiar sentiment, but he doesn't – _can't_ – listen to it now.

“Sounds like a full plate,” John replies. His voice is light and unhurried in the quiet café.

Sherlock surmises that he sounds a little impressed.

“You’re studying _medicine._ Why does a predominantly theory-based stream of study impress you?” The words are out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can stop himself, his brow naturally furrowing in confusion. His brain immediately responds with _shit, shit, shit._

John laughs. To Sherlock's utter amazement, it’s a laugh of joy and delight, however bemused it may be. It doesn't hold a trace of disdain.

“Because every branch of the core theory I needed for practical medicine took _a lot_ of time and effort for me to wrap my head around. Studying anything further on purpose is an achievement to me.”

In his horrified and bewildered state, all Sherlock can do is smile. It’s a tiny, fragile thing, and John realises that it’s the mark of someone who’s used to having their most pessimistic expectations of a certain situation be justified – up until now. He’d seen it on Harry’s face the day he ran after her and told her he’d always love her, right after their father had thrown her out of their house.

John knows it’s not worth mentioning, certainly not now. Not when there’s the much more interesting option of –

“And how the hell did you know I study medicine?”

Sherlock’s smile turns uncharacteristically sheepish as the barista wipes his hands on his apron and takes a seat across from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an undeniable spark in Sherlock and John's first real conversation.

In a general sense, Sherlock talks a lot.

He talks to the anatomy bust his mother bought him when he moved out for university. He talks to his reflection the morning of an exam, reciting facts and formulas until he can no longer see any trace of panic in his features. He talks to Mrs. Hudson in a way that makes her smile fondly over their plates of shortbread biscuits. He talks to Irene about how dull his calculus professor is and whichever girl she thinks is most not-dull at present. He even talks to himself in his own head – mostly about trivial things like how much milk he’s likely to need over the forthcoming week, or the probability that he might eventually obtain a sample of francium to experiment with in the twenty or so minutes before it decays into other elements.

None of those experiences are quite like talking to John.

Because John isn’t merely someone to be talked _to_. His responsiveness stimulates further thought in a way Sherlock has been trying to achieve with his bust for months.

John doesn’t just offer token statements, either – a habit Mrs. Hudson gets into sometimes. As much as Sherlock loves her, there’s only so many times he can stand an _‘mhm’_ here and an _‘oh, really?’_ there, peppered with the occasional _‘that’s quite interesting, isn’t it?’_ , before he feels a soul-deep compulsion to bring up her favourite television drama or Mrs. Turner next door.

No, John is _engaged_. He marvels with an open mouth over the deductions that led Sherlock to uncover his field of study. He asks which essay he’s working on, and follows with specific, directed questions that Irene would never care for. For some reason quite beyond him, Sherlock realises John is interested to know more about him, even if it means John makes himself recall the boring essay topics he probably wrote on and mentally discarded two years ago.

Then he surprises Sherlock with a fervent remark that Professor Byrne – Sherlock’s ecology professor, who taught pharmacology subjects for a grand total of three semesters – has an extraordinary gift for making any possibly-interesting subject an absolute bore.

“His voice put me to sleep three Tuesday mornings in a row!” John’s eyes widen slightly in earnest, and Sherlock hastens to agree. The professor’s voice could rival a moralising minister for its degree of monotony. “I was actually excited for pharmacodynamics[1] – you know –” Sherlock nods in an encouraging manner. _Skip the basics._ “And he just destroyed it. Demolished any pure motivation I had to study for it. I drank so much coffee that semester.” John shakes his head, the remembered disappointment flickering anew in his eyes.

“My calculus professor has the same effect,” Sherlock says, his tone knowing. “I appreciate mathematics as an art form with its own brand of inherent beauty, and I’ve always had a particular predilection for calculus. But Copeland’s vector calculus class is –” His eyes slip shut for a moment as he shakes his head. “– a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.”

John’s laugh seems to burst out of him of its own accord, light and musical without extending into booming territory. Sherlock wants to record it, hold it, bottle it; fashion it into cologne and let it sink into his pores every morning. As it stands, a smile drifts over his face like wisps of cloud on a breezy afternoon: gentle and unhurried, yet all the more welcome for surprising him.

He finds himself completely entranced by this wonderful man, who actually invites questions, as eager to give knowledge as to absorb it.

Sherlock learns about the grey ball of a cat John had named Leon as a child. His father declared that he wouldn’t allow any celebrity or character names to be given to it, since he hoped a nice, normal name would incline the cat to be a nice, normal pet. The paradigm of familial respect, John neglected to inform his father the name was inspired by John Lennon. He learns John has a sister Harry whom he clearly loves very much – obvious from the sparkle in his eyes when he recounts how she’d pushed him out of a tree when they were kids. She’d signed his cast in capital letters spelling out _Harry was here_ , so everyone would know she was responsible for his broken arm.

Each bright jingle of the bell above the door, and every dawning realisation that he should check on the few other customers still hanging around, makes John seem to start with a physical tremor, like he’s shaking himself awake from a dream. He is, really – in his own mind. Sitting with this man, having the chance to talk to him, feels like a blessing; like time and fate have conspired to grant him this gifted company. John’s worried that this beautiful, witty enigma of a man might realise at any moment that it’s just John he’s talking to – John, who doesn’t own any posh coats like the one he wore the other morning, and doesn’t know the first thing about Gödel’s theorems.

Every time he gets up to do a quick walk around to other customers or ducks behind the counter to serve a harried student on their way home from the library, he finds himself just a little worried the spell will break. Worried that when he walks back to the table, this low-voiced chemistry student, with eyes like electricity and a face seemingly chiselled by Michelangelo himself, will tell him it’s been nice to chat but he’d rather not do so again.

But John finds himself talking about all kinds of things at the other man’s request, unthinkingly spilling details of his life like a child handing out sweets. It’s addicting to have his full attention, to feel like whatever he tells him, his secrets will not only be kept safe but remembered, treasured.

Sherlock asks too many questions, some simply to see John’s mouth screw to the side and his brow crease gently. He marvels at the openness with which John speaks, thinks, feels. Emotions dance together on his face as he talks, chasing each other around the corners of his lips and the space between his eyebrows, the crinkle of his nose and the movement of his eyes. Watching him think is heady, exhilarating; an intake of breath before the impending drop of a rollercoaster.

Reality intrudes, unavoidable and unwanted, when closing time eventually creeps too close to ignore any longer. Sherlock finally admits that he should go. It takes a startling amount of his self control to give voice to a fact he knows to be true, even if some desperate part of him wishes it wasn’t. A hand passes over the back of John’s neck as the barista nods. A similar hesitation is clear in his expression, even as he smiles graciously.

A comfortable tension has brought them together, only sharpening each time John has risen to attend to his responsibilities: a thread delicate as cotton pulled taut, ineffable as heavenly bodies caught in mutual orbit. Neither is eager to break the connection they’ve unwittingly formed. Trepidation makes itself known in the growing doubt that maybe this easy magic isn’t meant to last beyond the confines of an empty café on a hazy Saturday afternoon.

They share soft, secretive smiles, their appreciation for the company and the conversation going unnamed but not unacknowledged. Then Sherlock packs away his books with a rustle while John shuffles over to the counter, the dishes that await him in mind.

Sherlock thinks about his essay, long-forgotten in favour of more worthwhile uses of his attention, and simply can’t bring himself to care at present. The happy crinkle around his eyes is made visible only to the interior of his messenger bag. Then he rolls his neck in a smooth semicircle and straightens with a small intake of breath, steeling himself to return to the world outside of this newfound haven.

The two men meet eyes over the counter as Sherlock approaches. Both fail quite spectacularly to temper their matching grins.

Sherlock wonders if he should ask John if he’d like to go out sometime. Dismisses the idea. Grabs at it again. Mentally shoves it out of reach – or at least into a drawer for later contemplation.

“I’ll see you later, then.” It comes out as more of a question than a sure statement, despite his best efforts.

“Yeah. I, uh –” John fumbles with something that the counter blocks from Sherlock’s view, glancing down at whatever it is he holds in his hands. “I’m not supposed to do this, but I figure I can make an exception.” _For an exceptional man_ , John mentally continues, chuckling under his breath. A moment later he holds a paper bag out for Sherlock to take.

Inside, to Sherlock’s surprise, is a chocolate chip croissant.

Although Sherlock can’t see his own expression, he isn’t sure which of them looks more bashful. John hides it well with what is positively a beam, while Sherlock thinks he might actually faint. _Cause of death: attractive barista prompts university student to forget how to breathe._

He considers asking him out. He could do it, really. He could. He could just –

“Thank you,” he breathes out in a rush instead. _Coward._ “That’s very kind.”

“No problem.” John doesn’t seem to mind the abrupt formality. There’s an almost-sparkle in his eyes. “I’ll be around. See you, Joseph.”

Sherlock nods a final farewell before he leaves. He’s two streets away before the reality of John’s goodbye crosses his mind. His homebound stride comes to a stop as an expression of horror falls onto his face. _Oh, fuck._

In an effort to distract himself from the feeling of impending disaster, he looks down at the paper bag he’s been clutching absentmindedly, sliding the croissant towards its opening to take a bite. It’s only then that he notices the writing on the other side of the bag.

There is a number written in endearingly untidy scrawl – undoubtedly John’s. The words that accompany it read: _Not working tomorrow. Dinner instead?_

Not for the first time in recent days, Sherlock considers the relative merits of simply accepting his fate and commencing the lodgement process to legally change his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 _Pharmacodynamics_ : the study of how a drug at a certain concentration affects an organism at the site of action, with respect to the drug’s binding with a receptor.  
> Compare with (related) _pharmacokinetics_ , which is the study of how an organism absorbs, distributes, metabolises and excretes a drug. [return to text]
> 
> Disclaimer that my knowledge of pharmacology is limited to high school chemistry, a 2am google search, and a very brief discussion with my third-year med best friend, which veered mainly into how much organic chemistry sucks.
> 
> Also, shout out to the two professors at my uni whose last names I stole. I’ve never met either of them, but they have brilliant names. And to the professor whose Tuesday morning classes I consistently fell asleep in – thanks, I guess.


End file.
